Gangly Apes
by MesT
Summary: John attempts to express his discomfort at some of Sherlock's more "intimate" tendencies. Sherlock resists and poses a challenge to the doctor. Sherlock/John SLASH, definitely. *DAY TWO UP*
1. Prologue

**Summary: **John attempts to explain to Sherlock the finer points of acceptable versus unacceptable social interaction amongst friends, particularly amongst _male_ friends. Sherlock resists and instead poses a challenge the doctor cannot refuse.

****Gangly Apes****

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><p>"Sherlock, we need to talk." John was trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. Really, he was trying. He stood in front of his friend, left foot tapping the ground faster and faster as he waited for the irritatingly <em>delayed<em> response to his request.

Long legs stretched across the couch, slim fingers plucking at the rather pesky, in John's opinion, violin. Finally a bored voice remembered to respond.

"Oh?"

"Sherlock!" John took a moment to ruffle – or rather yank at – his own hair. Then he counted to three. Then to six. "We are going to have a conversation. You and I. And you are going to focus. Understood?"

Sherlock only smirked, no doubt finding his flatmate's rattled state mildly entertaining. He lifted his legs in an invitation for John to sit down. And stretched them back out at first chance, now across John's lap.

"Wait, hang on -" John spluttered, his attempt at standing back up foiled by those limbs forcefully pressing down against him, keeping in place. "For God's sake! This is precisely the type of behavior we need to discuss."

_Twang,_ went the violin.

"It's called space," John soldiered on, albeit to something akin to a brick wall. "_Personal space_. Personal – _put that blasted thing down for one minute!_"

Wide-eyed, Sherlock obliged. He set the instrument down on the coffee table beside him, folded his arms in front of him, and stared straight at John.

After a moment John had to look away. Those eyes were too... blue.

"You seem rattled," the detective calmly observed.

"Really?" _Count to three, John. _"Pray tell – by what means have you... deduced... that?" _Count again. _

"Why not spit it out, John," Sherlock recommended. "I hardly think theatrics are your strong suit."

"Why are you making this so difficult-"

"-I'm not, I'm being perfectly amicable-"

"-I'm trying to talk to you about personal space, Sherlock," John rambled out while he could still get a word in. "We need boundaries. _I _need boundaries. And some of your quirks, as of late, have been overstepping _my_ boundaries-"

Sherlock looked toward the ceiling and let out an exaggerated sigh by way of interruption.

"Are you, in a round-about way, attempting to complain about something I've done?" Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Get to the point, please. I'm a busy man."

Again those blue eyes bore down on him. John cleared his throat.

"That time you slept in my bed."

"What of it?" Sherlock demanded.

"I had to sleep on the couch! People don't just sleep in other people's beds."

"Mine was not available that night – it was still partially _on fire_ from my latest experiment, I thought I had made that clear. You slept on the couch of your own volition, it seemed."

"But, Sherlock," John persisted, though he wondered if in the end his efforts to make his friend understand the intricacies of acceptable social behavior would be in vain. "Two men do not normally sleep in the same bed together."

Sherlock huffed. "I hardly care where other men do or do not sleep, John, surely that's not news to you."

"Yes but – it made me uncomfortable, hence the couch."

"Why did it make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock demanded innocently, even with a tinge of hurt in his voice.

John blinked. "Well, I don't mean – it's just that – that sort of thing is reserved for people who, you know, like each other."

"But I like you."

_Aww. _John nearly smiled at the blunt sentiment. And then he frowned. This was not going well.

"Let's move on," he decided. "What about that time you held my hand at the movie theatre?"

"What of it?"

"Holding hands is an intimate thing, Sherlock. Too intimate for two friends to be doing. And I know you couldn't have possibly had an experiment-gone-wrong excuse for that."

"John," Sherlock began in a tone as if he were speaking to a child, "by what means have you concluded that it is 'too intimate' for friends to hold hands?"

"Um." Oddly John felt his face drain of color, then flushed. "Well, other people..."

"You disappoint me, doctor," Sherlock said. "I had hoped you'd rise above taking advice on right and wrong from awful literature, insufferable movies, pointless magazines, and those gangly apes that have regrettably populated this otherwise vaguely tolerable planet. They go around with their funny little heads, living their silly little lives, and you value their opinions on human interaction over mine?" He paused to shake his head before adding, "Count your lucky stars I put up with you, John."

"Okay," John conceded after a moment. "Perfectly valid points. But does it not at all matter that _I_, as an individual, honestly feel uncomfortable at certain levels of proximity with another man?"

"I know for a fact that that's not true," Sherlock rebutted.

"Really. Enlighten me."

"My legs are resting on your lap," he observed.

"Yes, that's brilliant." John pursed his lips in annoyance. "Allow me to point to the fact that you placed them there of your own accord, without my permission."

"And your hands are resting on top of them, rather comfortably I might add, I assume of their own accord also." Sherlock smirked. "In fact the fingers of your right hand are positively wrapped around my ankle."

John looked down and to his horror realized the man was right. He stiffly removed his hands and crossed his arms high at his chest, trying to take his mind off the notion that perhaps his cheeks might turn a permanent red.

Sherlock giggled. John bristled.

"Look," Sherlock suddenly appealed, swinging his legs off the couch and rearranging himself in a kneeling position on the floor in front of John. "I'm beginning to understand the origin of your sub-par intellectual abilities," he continued, moving his hands to punctuate his words. "You're so busy attempting to conform yourself into some small box that the Great Ape has enforced upon you, that there's no room in that brain for anything halfway useful. Am I right?"

John sighed. He looked almost like a puppy, there on the floor. An irritatingly scintillating puppy.

"Sherlock, a lesser man would have taken offense to what you've just said to me."

"Which is why I felt perfectly free to say it to you."

"And your verbal filter is pristine in all other situations, right," John mumbled sarcastically. "This conversation is getting us nowhere," he added, slumping forward in defeat and painfully colliding his forehead with the other man's. "Ow."

"You're upset because this isn't progressing how you'd expected," Sherlock stated.

"No, I -what the-"

Sherlock abruptly rose to his feet and towered over John to such an extreme that the smaller man briefly considered crawling into a hole and weeping.

"I have a proposition," Sherlock declared.

"Oh, lord."

"Do it my way, for one week." His voice was soft, now.

"I _have_ been tolerating 'your way'," John pointed out.

"I'm not interested in your 'tolerance.' I mean really _commit_, to my way of expression, for one week."

John's neck was beginning to cramp, staring up at the other man. He rose to his feet.

"And then?" he demanded.

"And then if you're still set in your dire ways, then I will concede to your wishes." Sherlock held out his hand. "Deal?"

The doctor sighed. If he played along for one week, then maybe his friend would stick to his promise of leaving him alone afterward.

"Deal." John reached and shook the outstretched hand.

Surely it couldn't be t_hat _difficult to resist Sherlock for one little week.

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><p><strong>TBC?<strong>

**A/N: **Let me know if you're interested in more, and I might write 7 additional chapters (one chapter per "day" in Sherlock and John's world). I haven't written a multi-chapter fic in ages, could be fun. :)


	2. Day One

**A/N: **Well, you have successfully convinced me to continue this story, thank you. XD

Oddly enough, some of your reviews have inadvertently given me some lovely ideas for the upcoming chapters. Thank you for motivating me to write, and for unknowingly exercising my imagination!

A lovely author on here had a fantastic idea of replying to reviews within the story itself, so at the end of this chapter I will have a little reply to everyone.

**Warning: **In case you missed this earlier, this story does/will contain SLASH, male/male romance, that type of thing. Please don't read if not your cup of tea, otherwise enjoy!

**Day One**

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><p>John didn't sleep well that night. Which was, of course, an understatement.<p>

He woke often, not remembering anything of his dreams except an unsettling sense of anxiety and dread that followed him into the next, each time he drifted back to sleep.

At eight in the morning, the sound of his alarm jolted him out of bed and onto the floor with a loud _thump_. Mercifully he came to his senses and recognized his surroundings _before _grabbing for his revolver and diving under the bed for cover.

Now he remembered. It was Monday; he was working a slightly later shift in the clinic today.

He stumbled over to the one mirror in his room and regarded himself. He was wearing his favorite pair of faded pajamas, light stubble covered his jaw, and the hair on his head seemed to be pointing toward the left.

_This look will do_, he decided, as he ambled toward his bedroom door. He opened it and stepped through peacefully enough, and then the sight of the stairs leading down toward the living room finally jostled his memory.

He didn't just have work today. This was Day One, whatever that meant.

John now acknowledged the source of last night's sleepless anxiety. His hands suddenly felt clammy; he realized he was nervous. Then he felt irritation creeping in.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. _Better irritated than nervous_, he reasoned.

Tentatively he stepped down onto the first step. Then onto the second. Finally, satisfied with his progress and overall bravery, John Watson finished his climb down the stairs and entered the living room.

He heard a commotion in the kitchen, which really sounded more like a robbery or murder in action, but by now John knew it was just Sherlock making tea.

Not quite knowing what to do, and not in any hurry to officially commence Day One, John sat down in his chair and practiced his best impression of a neutral facial expression.

"John!" Sherlock beamed, entering from the kitchen, two tea mugs in hand.

"Oh," John said, face straining in an attempt to act normal. "Hellooo..." God, why did he draw out that syllable? _Focus, John. You can do this._

"Bad night?" Sherlock inquired innocently, handing John one of the mugs and perching on the chair arm beside him, leaning in.

For a mildly hysterical moment, John wondered if maybe he kept very still and quiet, Sherlock would forget he was there.

"John."

"Ah, yes, well, the war and all." He paused to clear his throat, careful to avoid his friend's eyes. "Never leaves you, I guess. Yyyep," he finished with what he hoped was a sufficient explanation. Or, blatant lie, rather.

Sherlock set his mug down and sighed with impatience. He put an arm around the smaller man's shoulders.

"You are not committing," he accused in his ear.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, _John_. We've been here less than one minute and already you're sitting stiff as a board that's somehow also grown big, sad bug eyes."

"Now hang on," John protested. He felt like clarifying that it's been precisely forty-two seconds, but then realized that that would reveal just how closely he had been watching the clock across the room and in turn unveil something or other about his current emotional state. He thought better of it.

"I want commitment!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, nearly making John's heart fall out of his chest. The detective leapt to his feet and started hopping about, shouting the word 'commitment' with each hop.

John gaped at the man bouncing around the room, curls and arms and everything flailing. He considered making a run for it.

"Okay, _okay_!" John finally conceded, fearing that at any moment the neighbors might rush in with guns, demanding answers. "I'm trying, alright? What exactly do you want me to do?"

Sherlock immediately halted and returned to his perch on the arm chair.

"I want you to follow my lead," he explained patiently as if he hadn't been exerting himself just a moment before, "and act _natural_, for God's sake."

John frowned, not sure if he could remember how to do that.

"You know," Sherlock elaborated, "act like you do with Sarah."

"Wait." The doctor blinked, holding his palms up in protest. "Halt everything. You can't possibly mean what you just said."

"But I do."

"I can't act with you like I do with Sarah," John said, voice rising. "She's my girlfriend!"

"I fail to see the difference."

John stared for a moment at his friend and then buried his head in his hands, releasing a guttural groan of pure frustration and disbelief.

"_Dare_ I ask: What exactly have you got planned for the next few days?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment.

"You know, I haven't quite decided." He glanced at John through long lashes. "But there will definitely be dancing."

"You... dance?"

"Not today, I don't," Sherlock replied with a wink. "But I will, very soon."

"Why does that sound like a threat," John wondered aloud.

"Don't worry, my friend, by that time you will have long since crawled out of your box and started to enjoy yourself."

"You seem very confident," John noted.

"Aren't I always?" And with a grin, Sherlock grabbed the other man's hands and yanked him unceremoniously to his feet. "Get dressed," he ordered. "We're going for a walk."

"A walk?" the doctor parroted, feeling more than a little dazed.

"Yes, a walk, _a walk_, have you had one before? Yes? Good, then you'll have a general idea of how it goes."

"I'm not a dog," John protested as Sherlock shoved him in the direction of his room, implying he should put on proper clothes first. "I don't go on wal-_okay_, I got it!" he yelped at a particularly forceful shove. "I've got work at noon today, you know," he reminded.

"Irrelevant."

"Wha- no, _no_, Sherlock, certainly _not_ irrelevant. Nowhere in our agreement did we say I had to skip work."

"Fine," Sherlock conceded, sighing melodramatically. "Five minutes. Downstairs," he said over his shoulder, turning toward his own room.

Once in the safety of his bedroom, John couldn't help but spend a minute or so longer at choosing his outfit for the day. _If I am destined to perish_, he reasoned, _I will at least look decent. _He decided on jeans, blue shirt (not the one with the hole in it, the other one), brown jacket.

By the time he made it downstairs Sherlock was already waiting for him, looking impeccable in a black suit and purple shirt. No long coat and scarf today; it was unusually warm outside. The two friends stepped through the front door and Sherlock locked it behind them.

"Right," the detective said, turning toward John, "follow me."

Immediately Sherlock looped his arm through John's and commenced leading the other man in his chosen direction.

"Sher-Sherlock," John hissed, "what are you doing?" He was sure he could see passersby giving them odd looks.

"Strolling," the taller man replied. "And what are you doing? _Committing,_ I hope? Otherwise our deal is off."

John tried to relax. Surely he could handle a brief arm-in-arm walk with another man. He tried to focus on other things; trees, passing cars, a crooked street sign, Sherlock, _no, no_, pretty girl in a red skirt, lost sock on the ground, dog barking in the distance, wind...

"Where are we going?" he finally ventured, voice cracking toward the end.

"You'll see," was the only reply.

They walked on for what seemed like hours to John, yet when he glanced at his watch he saw it had only been twenty minutes. His limbs were already starting to feel sore, likely from a combination of having to constantly speed up to match Sherlock's pace, and his general rigidity caused by being arm-in-arm with his friend. He could have sworn every single person they passed glanced at the pair, and he silently prayed they wouldn't run across anyone he knew. He would never be able to explain the situation he was in without turning a terrible red, and then of course in turn he would never be able to explain his blush.

Either way, he felt very sorry for himself and assumed that terrible happenings were inevitable.

"We're here," Sherlock unexpectedly announced, startling John out of his self-pity.

He glanced around. They were in a... park?

"You brought me to a park?"

"Don't tell me you've never seen one of these."

"No, it's just-"

"-Good, let's carry on then, no time to waste," Sherlock prattled, not slowing his pace.

They walked along a path that wound through first an open grassy area before turning into a modest forest of sorts, park benches scattered here and there; the odd jogger or couple with a pram populated the area. Soon they came upon a sizable pond with a bridge connecting the narrowest sides.

It was actually quite nice.

"Pretty," John said in what he hoped was an appreciative tone. He was _committing_.

"It is, isn't it," Sherlock replied sincerely. "One of the few places in London where one can come to think."

John watched as Sherlock let go of his arm and made his way toward the small bridge. The detective climbed to the center of it, sat down, and dangled his long legs over the edge. He turned toward John and patted the spot next to him.

Hesitantly, John made his way over and sat down next to Sherlock, trying to resist the instinct to inch away as the other man shuffled closer to him, hips now touching his. The detective sat gazing serenely upon the water, legs slightly swinging, like a child's might.

"So," John ventured, after it was clear that nothing particularly shocking would happen. "Wasn't expecting this."

"Hmm?" came the distracted reply.

"Well, I thought, I don't know, that you had something more... difficult in mind." He scratched his head. "For instance... I thought you might drag me to some male strip club and command me to get on stage, rationalizing that you were teaching me a lesson in expanding my horizons, or... something."

"Banish the thought," Sherlock reassured, still looking out across the water. "I'm not one for strippers, stripping, etcetera."

"You'd be good at it," John verbalized before he could stop himself.

There was an odd pause. Sherlock turned to stare at John.

"What?"

"What? Nothing," John squeaked.

"What did you just say?"

"I didn't say anything. In fact, I haven't been speaking this entire time," the doctor said, nearly convincing himself.

Sherlock turned to face the water again, but his suspicious gaze remained on John a hair longer.

Once the awkward moment passed John exhaled so thoroughly, his body was nearly at risk of collapsing in upon itself.

"Look," Sherlock said suddenly, pointing at the water just underneath their feet. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

John craned his neck and sure enough, right below them, a school of large, well-fed, colorful fish had come to the surface.

"Would you look at that," John marveled, smiling. "Cheeky buggers! Do they think we have food?"

"They'd be correct," came the unexpected reply as Sherlock pulled out a small ziplock bag filled with what looked to be bread crumbs. He sprinkled a few into the water, the fish swimming on top of each other in their excitement. He offered the bag to John.

"Sherlock." John was ginning. "This is very, very cute."

Sherlock blinked. "What is?"

John took the bag from Sherlock and dropped a few more crumbs into the water.

"This. Going to a park to feed goldfish. Doesn't sound like you. Although," John considered, "now that I've seen you in action, it does make a little bit of sense."

"Is that what they are?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly. "Goldfish?"

"Don't tell me you don't know what a goldfish is."

"It's not important," Sherlock said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Right. Just like not knowing who the Prime Minister is, or that-"

John was startled out of his speech by Sherlock taking a hold of his hand. He froze, thinking hard. This was just like that time at the movie theater, but this time he was probably supposed to play along instead of retracting his hand as subtly as possible, like he had then.

Except he didn't have the first idea of how to hold a friend's hand. He knew what he would to do with Sarah's. He would gently squeeze her fingers, or stroke her palm, or they would clasp hands and swing their arms while walking.

But what the hell was he supposed to do with Sherlock? The man's hand didn't move, didn't do anything at all, except hold his.

Was this supposed to feel good, in the detective's "liberated" world? John glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He had to at least admit that it didn't necessarily feel _bad_.

In fact, it almost felt nice.

But when John felt Sherlock rest his head upon his shoulder, he immediately detached himself and stumbled onto his feet, taking a defensive step back.

He couldn't begin to explain why he reacted so violently to the contact, but he almost regretted it as he took in Sherlock's hurt expression.

"What has gotten into you?" the detective demanded, rising to his feet as well.

"Nothing," John dismissed, turning away and walking. Somewhere. Anywhere.

"John," Sherlock pressed, catching up to him. "You're acting foolish."

"I'm fine."

"John. You are not _committing_."

The doctor stopped and spun on his heels, nearly causing the taller man to collide with him.

"I am beginning to hate that word," he spat.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly."

"I think you're acting like a childish twat," Sherlock proclaimed.

"_Me? _That's rich, coming from you." He was vaguely surprised by his own rising emotions. "You know what I have to say to that?"

"What," Sherlock challenged, icy gaze steady.

"This," John said, placing his palms on his friend's chest and lightly shoving. "And that." Another shove, this time harder.

"Very mature, Doctor Watson. Refreshing to witness how adept you are with _words_," Sherlock mocked.

John needed a fight, he realized that now. He felt overwhelmed by an inexplicable adrenaline that begged for release.

Clearly a nice brawl would solve the problem.

"What's the matter?" he taunted, shoving again, this time causing the other man to stumble a few steps backward. "Chicken?"

"I am not partaking in this," Sherlock said, straightening. "This is embarrassing."

John watched him turn and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

And as soon as he made the mistake of glancing away, a very large, very heavy Sherlock was suddenly upon him, knocking him completely off his feet and causing him to hit the ground with a loud _thud_, the other man pinning him down.

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly from above the smaller man.

"Look!" John cried, widening his eyes at something toward Sherlock's left. And as soon as he fell for the bait, John used the small window of opportunity to slide out from under him and tackle him to the ground, reversing their positions. "You," he breathed, "are gullible."

Sherlock looked offended. And put up such a struggle that eventually John lost his advantage and was again pinned to the ground.

The two men wrestled like that for ages, long enough to cake themselves in dead leaves and all manner of dirt. People strolling through the park started avoiding that section of the trail, the fight not only visible but audible to all, each man shouting colorful obscenities at the other.

Long minutes later, both panting hard, Sherlock and John lay unceremoniously sprawled on the ground.

"Are you satisfied?" Sherlock asked between breaths.

"Oddly, yes," John wheezed. He felt better now. More relaxed. He glanced at his watch and groaned. He would be late for work. "I have to go."

Sherlock rose to his feet first and offered a hand. John grasped it and let himself be painfully yanked to his feet.

"Well, that was productive," Sherlock said, the sarcasm in his voice undisguised. "What next? Shall I grab my gun for a duel?" He reached to pluck a stray leaf from John's hair.

And John bit Sherlock's finger.

"Ow!" the detective exclaimed. "What on earth was that for?"

"I have to go," John proclaimed. "I'm going to be late."

With that he stomped off, leaves and clumps of dirt leaving a trail behind him.

_What a brilliant, successful day,_ he grumbled to himself, although he must have said it out loud as a woman walking nearby jumped. _Can't wait for Day Two._

**TBC**

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><p><strong>AN: **I can't wait either – hope you're enjoying reading as much as I am writing it. As always PLEASE let me know what you think – you are a part of this story now!

**Cannon Corruptor: **Thank you very much, and I hope to distress you further. ;)

**anotherscreamingfangirl:** LOL, here have this nice pillow for your knees. You made me smile!

**Alli:** Thanks much – I hope they stay in character.

**Thecakeisalive: **Alright how on earth did you come up with that username, hehe.

**Himitsu Uchiha: **Yes, blunt Sherlock, surely has had much luck with the ladies in the past. ;) Pfffffttt. Can you imagine?

**Kris:** Ooh I hope the story lives up to it!

**The Anonymous Fic Reviewer: **Aww thank you. Smiles are very good. :)

**Soapiefan: **I'd love to see it too, and strangely your words have given me some ideas.

**SimpGirl87:** This too has oddly given me some ideas. ;) Thanks! Betcha ya didn't even know.

**Jane: **Thanks girl, I'm happy to get into a slightly longer story.

**Coragyps: **You know Sherlock quite well, my friend.

**Sepei: **Your wish is my command.

**Catrina Marlow: **Ooh I would like to read that. I wouldn't mind Sherlock using me as a pillow. Sigh.

**Ryohei-nya: **Yes moaaarrrr coming! :)

**Tonee Alto:** Thanks, I hope it lives up to it!

**Lonewolfe001:** LOL. Sherlock cannot lose.

**Livia-bj: **Funny how the "sociopath" might actually have the right idea, eh?

**OnTheWinterSolstace:** Thanks so much, I'm glad they can seem like "themselves" in the story.

**Hitachiin Shibo: **Very glad you like the characterization! :)

**Anonymous: **Dawwww... ;)

**Lau:** Okay I won't, I want to know too!

**Silverblind: **Thank you – I don't think I've written a fic in this style before, we'll see how it goes!

**Kelgadis:** Okay well a handful of days later isn't too late I hope? ;)

**fullmetaldevil:** I hope all of it turns out okay!

**Gwyna: **Slowly but surely more are coming.


	3. Day Two

**A/N: **I don't know about you, but I NEED Season 2 to start BAHHH I'm going crazy!

Day Two finally up!

Just a warning if you've missed it earlier, this is/will be Sherlock/John SLASH.

Thank you SO much for your kind reviews, and as always replies to each are at the bottom of this chapter. :)

I'm having enormous fun with this little story, and I hope you are too.

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><p><strong>Day Two<strong>

"I'm not going. _I'm not going,_" John shrieked.

He had managed to avoid Sherlock the entire day, up until then. His alarm had gone off earlier than needed, he'd dressed quickly and had even managed to tiptoe past the lounge and out the front door without being noticed.

His day at work had been long. Exhausting. _Excruciating._

It wasn't that he had been overwhelmed by the number of patients, though the clinic was perennially understaffed. The problems presented to him were mundane, nothing he couldn't solve in his sleep or standing upside down on his head. Sarah had been wonderful, popping into the office every now and then to offer lunch, coffee, company. They had even organized a Thursday date, two days from now, when both of their schedules would allow for a free evening.

Everything had gone smoothly. According to plan. Things were _normal._

But every five bloody minutes throughout the day, John Watson had found himself glancing nervously at his wristwatch, at the clock on the wall, at the little digits at the corner of his computer screen which persistently kept moving forward.

At one point he had even tapped at his watch and telepathically commanded it to stop, or better yet, reverse. But despite his best efforts time kept moving in one direction and, seemingly, faster than ever.

John had dreaded the end of the day, when he would have no choice but to return to the horrors of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock's childlike oblivion to society's structure was... unsettling. Aggravating. Or was it endearing?

Whatever it was, at the back of John's mind he had begun to realize that something inside of him was melting. A crack had begun to develop in his defenses. A weak spot that threatened the entire infrastructure of his being.

And John didn't have the slightest idea of what could be on the other side, should his walls ever crumble. He wasn't so sure he would like to witness it. And, more frighteningly, he wasn't at all sure if Sherlock would, either. He wondered if his friend's attempts at showing him an alternative way of existing would yield completely unexpected, and possibly repelling, results.

So now, back at their shared flat, John was stubbornly resisting Sherlock's attempts at coaxing him out to a "nice meal," as the detective had ominously promised.

"I'm not going and that's final," John shouted, simultaneously trying to twist out of Sherlock's grasp. The detective had his arms hooked around his waist and was trying to physically pull him to the front door.

"I'm taking you to dinner, not to your execution!"

"Same thing!"

John momentarily succeeded in slipping out of his grasp, only to trip over himself and land face-down on the floor. Sherlock wasted no time in immediately gripped his ankles and beginning to pull the doctor across the floor, feet first, grunting with the effort. John frantically clawed at the carpet beneath him, beyond caring whether he was acting like a five year old or not.

"John," Sherlock said, voice straining with the physical effort of maneuvering him, "resistance is futile."

"Your _face _is futile," John barked, mentally promising himself to brush up on his comebacks. His flailing arms managed to grab a couch leg, and he held on for dear life.

Suddenly the full weight of Sherlock was upon him, pinning his body to the ground. Before John realized what was happening, the other man had managed to pull his arms away from the couch leg and secure them behind his back with... _handcuffs?_

"Sherlock, where the bloody hell did you get handcuffs?" John demanded, voice slightly muffled on account of his face being buried in the carpet.

"A little 'souvenir' from Lestrade," Sherlock said, standing up and lifting the handcuffed doctor to his feet. "But that's a tale for another time." He shoved John into the nearest chair and loomed over him, ice cold eyes shining with adrenaline.

"So," John said, trying to catch his breath, craning his neck upward. "Remind me again: which one of us supposedly has a military history? _Why are you stronger than me?_"

The detective's mouth curved up at the corners.

"Oh my," a voice came from the lounge entrance.

"God," John groaned, catching sight of a vaguely flustered Mrs. Hudson. There he was, breathing heavily, slightly sweating, in _handcuffs_, the detective adopting an unmistakably dominant posture before him. "This isn't what it looks like," he insisted in her direction.

"Don't you worry, dears," Mrs. Hudson assured, having already regained her composure. "It's your cup of tea, and it's none of my business. I just wanted to drop off a few essentials," she said, ambling toward the kitchen with a couple of small grocery bags. "If you need any new ideas," she continued pleasantly from the other room, "just ask the lovely boys from next door. Apparently they get up to all sorts of things in the night... Sometimes during the day, too."

John glared silent daggers up at his friend. Sherlock grinned.

"Thank you for stopping by, Mrs. Hudson," the detective said pleasantly, not taking his eyes off John as the woman emerged and made her way back toward the door.

"My pleasure, dears; I'll leave you to it then, shall I?" she said, smiling kindly. Soon the two men were alone again.

"John, what are you doing," Sherlock asked softly, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

"Glaring angrily."

"You look constipated."

"This has been utterly humiliating."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'entertaining.'" Sherlock's shoulders started to shake with silent laughter.

John stared at his friend for a moment longer and then, despite his best efforts, began to giggle. It came upon him out of nowhere and then quickly snowballed out of control, his body now contorting with laughter, Sherlock helplessly crumbling to his knees in stitches beside him.

"Sherlock," John breathed, his sides aching. "Please, for the love of God, I'm handcuffed and in pain, release me already."

"On one condition," Sherlock wheezed.

_Of course._

"And that is?"

Sherlock grabbed John's face in his hands and held him still. John tried to appear less shocked than he felt but only succeeded in making himself dizzy.

"You must begin to hold up your end of the bargain," Sherlock said, serious now. His blue eyes bore down on the doctor with such intensity that John wondered if he could perhaps be in danger of spontaneous combustion.

The blasted man was right, however. John had hardly been playing along. In fact the only thing he _had_ been doing was resisting with everything he had. He sighed.

"Fine. Fine, I'm sorry," John said, sincere now. Sherlock's eyes didn't leave his face, eventually forcing him to look away. He cleared his throat, becoming dimly self-conscious. "I'll do better."

"Good." Sherlock rose and rummaged around the drawers of his desk until he found what he was looking for.

A paperclip?

"Sherlock, don't tell me you don't have a_ key_ to these bloody things," John berated. "Honestly. Seriously. _Really_?"

"You," Sherlock said, pointing a finger in his direction. "Behave."

John shut up.

Sherlock ambled over and fumbled for a moment behind John's back. To his surprise, soon the handcuffs were loosened and slipped off his wrists.

"You should have more faith in me, doctor." Sherlock came back around to stand in front of his friend. "What are you doing?"

"Rubbing my wrists," John said.

"Why?"

"Erm." He paused for a moment. "Well, they do it in movies, don't they?"

"Are your wrists sore?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

John considered this for a moment and then promptly felt like a fool. _Movie ideas. Wow._

"No," he conceded, glancing from his wrists back up to Sherlock. "They're not." He smiled. "I'm an idiot."

"First accurate conclusion of the day, my friend." The detective offered his arm.

John took a deep breath, stood, and hooked his arm through the other man's.

"Off we go, then," he said, though he suddenly found he couldn't look Sherlock directly in the eyes. _Please don't deduce. Please don't deduce._

Ostensibly Sherlock took pity and kept quiet, instead leading them on through the lounge, past the front door, and to the street where the detective utilized his favorite method of catching a cab: by walking into it and forcing the car to screech to a halt.

He held John's hand in the cab ride. The very, very long cab ride. A full _seven minutes_ passed before they arrived, and John wondered if in that time he had managed to lose half his body weight in perspiration. Why was he so damn nervous?

"Here we are," Sherlock exclaimed as the cab slowed to a halt, shattering the silence. John jumped. Sherlock noticed. "Christ," he muttered with a disapproving glare at the doctor before leaping out, as usual leaving the other to pay.

"Hey," John started intelligibly a moment later once he caught up with his friend. "You!"

"Me!" They were making their way across the street; almost at the restaurant now, a quaint-looking place that John had likely passed many times before without noticing, a place that probably preferred to stay hidden.

"Do you think cabbies drive us around because they like us, is that it?" They had stopped at the front door now, facing each other.

"I'm not an idiot, John." A smirk. "You must know I keep you around for a reason."

"Brilliant. I feel like you're really making strides in helping me realize my full potential as a human being." John let Sherlock open the door, a hand on his back nudging him inside.

A kind waiter greeted them as John took in his surroundings. The restaurant was small, with minimal decorations. It was warm, a welcome contrast to the cooling evening outside. The place was very softy lit. Nearly every table was taken with patrons, though voices were kept low, adding to the overall pleasant atmosphere.

_Romantic,_ John thought. _Must remember to take Sher-__**Sarah**__ here. Must remember to take __**Sarah**__ here. _A sudden urge to bang his head against the wall overtook him. He barely resisted.

The waiter led them to a small corner table, offering them menus as they took their seats opposite each other.

"And of course all wine is on the house for Mr. Holmes and his guest," the waiter said. "Would you like me to select you a bottle of our finest?"

"No thanks-"

"-Yes, please!" John insisted, talking over Sherlock. "Wine would be very, very good."

The waiter blinked.

"Yes, of course. Straight away, sirs. And I'll bring you a nice candle as well," he added, smiling warmly.

Sherlock's look halted John's fledgling protest as the waiter turned to walk away. The situation quickly escalated into a staring contest.

_Do Not Resist the Candle, John, _Sherlock glared.

_I'll do what I want, _John glowered.

_If you know what's good for you, you will do as I say._

_Is that so?_ John's left eye twitched. _Well... twat!_

"Damnit!" he yelped out loud, foot aching from a sudden kick under the table.

The waiter returned as if on cue, producing a tray with a bottle of wine, two gleaming glasses, and a candle. He placed the glasses on the table and poured a small amount of wine into each, waiting for the men to taste and approve.

Sherlock swirled his expertly before taking a small sip, nodding to the waiter who filled the glasses the rest of the way, leaving the bottle. John was impressed, never having taken Sherlock for a wine connoisseur. Just as well; John would have probably spilled half the liquid onto his lap, were the swirling business up to him.

The waiter promised to be back shortly, giving them time to look through the menus. And he placed the God forsaken candle onto the center of the table, a hair or two closer to the doctor.

"Cheers," John squeaked. He glanced around; they were the only two men sharing a table. He picked up his menu and tried to browse through it. It may as well have been written in Chinese.

Mercifully it was shortly ripped out of his fingers, followed by a silky "I'll order." John took a large swallow of his wine.

"So, you know the waiter?"

"Of course." Blue eyes, eerily dark in the candlelight, scanned the menu. "Years ago he was recruited into a small, well-hidden, and very dangerous gang. Run by his father's brother, in fact. Impossible to back out of."

"So what happened?" John asked, taking another gulp of his wine and eyeing the bottle possessively.

"They were murdered," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "Not by me, of course," he added, his expression unchanging. "However I did ensure they crossed paths with a rival gang, and in the end our lovely waiter was freed through blood and death."

John stared at his friend, who for a moment seemed more like a vengeful angel than human. Could this really be the same man who childishly hopped about the room yesterday and defiantly sprawled on top of him on the couch the day before?

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, noticing the change in the doctor's expression. "You're unhappy with something I've said?"

"It's just," John began, trying to find the words. "You can seem... I feel like I don't know you at all, sometimes."

"Then get to know me," Sherlock murmured, leaning in, eyes bright. "You're already doing well. You know me better than anyone."

John took another sip of wine. He nodded, earning a small smile from his friend.

"Are you reassured?" Sherlock asked.

"For now."

"Meaning?"

"I may need more reassurance later." John immediately regretted those words, thinking that he had somehow managed to make them oddly suggestive. He prayed to the God of Consulting Detectives that the other man was too socially inept to notice.

Luck was not with him that night.

"You're turning a striking red, John, and now you won't look at me," Sherlock observed. "Why are you blushing? You're blushing even deeper as I'm speaking. Your forehead is glistening with perspiration now, why?"

"Sherlock!" John hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "Was handling the full attack of your _bluntness _part of the deal this week, too?"

"What is 'blunt'?" Sherlock demanded, throwing his hands up. "Blunt compared with what? With the word-vomit drivel that normally pours out of people's mouths? The circular speech-dancing that our Apes engage in solely because they've somehow decided they _should_, rather than save everybody the time, trouble, confusion, and _boredom _by simply speaking their minds from the beginning? By being _blunt_, as you coined it, from the start?"

"Bluntness can embarrass people," John said urgently. "Or hurt them. There has to be somewhat of a filter between a person's mind and mouth, Sherlock."

"Why?" the detective demanded, unblinking. "Don't you think it's more embarrassing and hurtful to use words to weave pointless mazes for others, so a person has to spend time deciphering and circumnavigating to find the blasted exit? Don't you think it would be better to create a straight line, from start to finish?"

John fumed.

"_Bluntness_ is not embarrassing. Bluntness is _merciful_. You are embarrassed now, I can see that. And I'd gander it's for a completely separate reason." Sherlock ended by finishing the wine in his glass in one go.

A moment later the waiter returned, and Sherlock ordered easily as if their conversation hadn't just happened. All John could do was stare. And drink his wine. He poured himself another glass, filling it to the brim.

They resumed glowering at each other as soon as the waiter left. John was forced to look away first, of course, after a few moments. There was something about Sherlock's merciless glare that was impossible to compete with. He hoped the food would come quickly so he'd have something else to focus on.

Sherlock poured himself another glass, sipping delicately this time.

"I didn't think you knew much about wine," John grumbled.

"I don't."

"Eh?" John was momentarily surprised out of his tense mood. "But the tasting, swirling... thing..."

"Saw it on telly once. Thought I'd give it a go."

"Pffft," John snorted, thankful the wine he was drinking didn't come out of his nose. "So, you're selective about which Ape behaviors you do and do not copy, then?"

"Yes, for practice, and experimental purposes." Sherlock said, as if it were perfectly obvious. "And it seems as though this time I've pulled it off. You never know when wine swirling skills may come in handy."

John thought about this. It was true that every now and then Sherlock would purposefully don a brief mask of normality, usually to persuade an unsuspecting victim into unknowingly assisting him with some case. It was scary, knowing Sherlock's true personality, how easily he could sometimes mimic a regular human being.

"Why don't you act like that with me?" John asked.

"You're not an experiment." Short and to the point. Voice soft, eyes intense.

Not quite sure where this was going, John again downed his wine and poured himself another glass. Shortly he saw Sherlock do the same and quickly realized that their drinking had somehow managed to become competitive. He was already feeling a slight buzz and was certain it wouldn't be long before he embarrassed himself further.

Short minutes later their food arrived, steak and various side dishes that John couldn't name, and he immediately dug in.

They ate in silence for some time, John every now and then stealing glances at the other man. He quite rarely witnessed Sherlock eating. It almost seemed like a very odd thing for him to be doing.

However, what was stranger was seeing him drink all that wine.

"Sherlock," John said in between mouthfuls. "I don't think I have _ever_ seen you touch one drop of alcohol. Doesn't it dull the senses, or something like that?"

"It does indeed," Sherlock agreed. With a very full mouth he added, "Tonight you're making me want to dull my senses."

Was that an accusatory glare?

John took another swig, and so did Sherlock.

"Waiter!" Sherlock suddenly called with a raised arm, causing the patrons nearby to turn their heads. "More wine!"

"Shhh," John hissed. "You're not hailing a cab, for God's sake."

"I'll do what I want, if it's all the same to you." A defiant glare.

"Fine, fine," John muttered. And when the new bottle arrived, he was the first to open it.

Before he knew it the better part of an hour had passed in that restaurant, the food quickly gobbled up but no end of wine in immediate sight. He felt a tension between them that didn't quite go away. In fact, it seemed to intensify with each glass of wine. And John was starting to feel reckless.

"Please essplain to me," he slurred after a time, leaning in and becoming very reliant on the table for support.

"Hmmmmmmm?"

"Please essplain to me why you brought me here in the firss place."

Sherlock threw his head back and nearly toppled off his chair.

"I wanted to have a nice meal," he said, spreading his arms, "nice wine, nice conversa-hiccup-tion with my friend, whom I love."

John gasped.

"You love me?"

"Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, his volume catching the attention of a couple of waiters who had been eyeing the pair for a while.

"Sherlock." John attempted to reach across the table for a hug. When it was clear his arms weren't quite long enough, he naturally assumed the best course of action would be to clamber over the table.

"Sir. _Sir_," their old waiter intoned, rapidly making his way toward John. "I'm afraid our restaurant is now closing, and I must kindly ask you two gentlemen to leave."

"Ha," Sherlock snorted. "This place is not closing." He crossed his arms in an intelligent sort of way.

"And how have you deduced that?" John asked eagerly, trying his best to sit relatively perpendicular to the floor. He loved hearing Sherlock explain his brilliance.

"I have _deduced_ this" - dramatic pause - "by observing the fact that there are still patrons here, and in fact new ones are coming through the door presently."

"See? Isn't he brilliant?" John smiled up at the waiter in full sincerity. Then he toppled over.

"Right. A little help here?" the waiter called. John felt arms lift him and vaguely registered being carried out the door, Sherlock putting up a half-hearted fight behind him.

Soon they were shoved in a taxi, and he heard the waiter mention something or other about owing Sherlock a favor and to not worry about the fare. Just as well. John wasn't quite sure where his wallet was, and in fact he couldn't bring himself to care.

The cab ride was strangely bumpy. Or so it seemed to John, who couldn't manage to sit anywhere close to still. Sherlock appeared to be having just as much trouble, sharp angles constantly colliding with him until finally the larger man just slumped onto his lap.

"Oi!" the driver yelled, glaring through the rear view mirror. "Relax back there!"

"Yes, sir," Sherlock mumbled, swinging his arm forward in an attempted mock-salute from the doctor's legs.

John had a brief moment to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair before they arrived at 221B Baker Street. The cab screeched to a halt, nearly throwing the two limp men through the front windshield.

Somehow John managed to open his door and tumble out of it, dragging his friend by the lapels behind him. By the time they found their footing and stood vertically again, the cab was long gone.

"Thanks for noffing!" Sherlock shouted, his voice echoing in the empty street.

"No no, don't do that." John's head was beginning to ache. He wasn't sure where the keys to the front door were. "Sherlock, where are the kess?"

"Kess?"

"The kess to the front doorss." A moment of blank stares passed. "Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" Surely the woman was still awake. At... whatever the time was.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock joined in. "Mrs. Hudson let us in issemergency!"

Very quickly the front door swung open, a startled landlady stepping aside for them to enter.

"How many times today must you shock me?" she scolded as the two tenants stumbled past. "It's not decent, look at you!"

"Some tea, please," Sherlock requested, taking the stairs on all fours with John following closely behind.

"I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson called after them in vein.

"I need a bed," Sherlock soon concluded, halfway up the stairs.

"Almost there," John encouraged, nudging the other man's rear to keep him moving. "Onward, my friend."

Just when John was beginning to think that someone had come in and extended the staircase to thrice its length while they were away at dinner, they finally reached the top. A short crawl later and they were at the detective's door, where they used the walls and each other to get to their feet.

After some effort Sherlock managed to locate the knob and swing the door open.

"This is where I bid thee goodnight," he said, with what was probably supposed to be a charming bow but ended up looking more like a seizure. "Sleep tights. Tight. Tomorrow is Day Three, you know."

For a split second John forgot who was standing in front of him, but he did notice that there was a pair of very pink lips not terribly far from his own.

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, very briefly.

Then abruptly withdrew as if struck, wide-eyed. What was happening? Yet he continued staring at the other man's mouth and madly considered doing it again.

"Wait," Sherlock whispered, at once seeming peculiarly sober. "You're not in a stable state of mind right now, John."

"I'm drunk," the doctor admitted helpfully.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock smiled. John's knees weakened. "I'll see you tomorrow. Get some rest. You'll need it."

And with that the bedroom door was slammed in John's face, leaving him to make his own way up to his room. Leaving him to his own thoughts.

_Oh_. _I'm going to regret this tomorrow._

**TBC**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Again please do let me know what you think, we're all in this story together... I have a mad vision of all of us crowding around a window like peeping toms, watching Sherlock and John and giggling. :-p

**Cannon Corruptor: **Ooh just you wait, it won't be too innocent for much longer, I don't think! ;) In any case Sherlock's motives are definitely cause for confusion for poor John. Thanks so much for another lovely review, I hope you keep enjoying it.

**Jane: **Thank you ma'am!

**Thecakeisalive: **Okay I shall write more but I strangely want cake now.

**Elendil Snape: **I'm curious as well teehee. XD Thanks very much!

**Moyima: **With any luck it'll be a week they'll never forget!

**Lumoa: **Should be interesting, considering how easily poor John gets flustered! Lol

**Arrow'Nash:** That. Is LOVELY. Reminds me of an experience I had... I was so close to my best friend in high school (both girls) that, despite being extremely and undeniably straight, I often had mad thoughts of forsaking all men, getting a nice little apartment with her, and living out the rest of our days together. I loved her so much I thought maybe, if I had to, I could possibly even learn to be sexually attracted to her. Anyway, long story short, we eventually had an odd falling out and have rarely spoken since. To this day I have no idea what happened. One of my biggest regrets. Okay so that's not quite the same as your story. ;-) Just reminded me I guess.

**Fanficwriter101feedback: **Glad you're enjoying it thus far!

**Tellyounolies:** Thanks very much, hope you like it the rest of the way as well! :)

**OnTheWinterSolstice: **Lovely way of putting it, I like it, and I agree! Sherlock knows everything. Just not... how it works. :-p

**Hitachiin Shibo: **Don't worry, I think John will wake up and smell the coffee sooner rather than later. ;-) Thanks for reviewing!

**Lau: **Thanks Lau. I hope the characterization stays true throughout.

**Livia-bj: **Hehe. Good, at least someone here is committing to something!

**LemonLoverXD: **Hmm I think neither, but we shall see! XD Thanks much!

**OryonUK: **Thanks very much, I too hope it's sooner rather than later. ;-) But then if it ends how will I distract myself from the fact that there is still no season 2, hmmmm...

**Sepei: **Your wish is my command! -runs off-

**Zainab: **Woohoo! XD

**anotherscreamingfangirl: **You're going to live... on a mountain. Okay, not many people can say that! ;-) I envy you and hope you return soon. With any luck there will be multiple chapters for you to read!

**Caighlee: **Hmm, I must say those are quite good suggestions. ;-) If they appear in the story we can just call you psychic, how about that.

**AliRae: **Oh I love how you said that, that it's like they're whispering in your ear. I would also die happy if that ever actually happened to me in real life.

**Juniperwing: **Thanks! :-) I hope it continues to be so!

**MadaraFanGirl: **Yes ma'am, shall do my utmost. :)

I hope that's everyone, so sorry if I've missed you... it's late and I've had a few glasses of wine myself. :-p


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